


Let’s Talk Hot Tubs

by redscout



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Depression, Disordered Eating, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Illness, Referenced at least, Trans Jake Peralta, Trans Male Character, Witness Protection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-08-06 20:53:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16394900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redscout/pseuds/redscout
Summary: Greg Stickney cares enough to notice his nextdoor neighbor, Larry, has been M.I.A. lately. He wouldn’t call it worrying; it’s more of a neighborly courtesy.





	Let’s Talk Hot Tubs

**Author's Note:**

> back at it again ignore the title for now its a little nonsensical but im sick and its 3:30 in the morning  
> set post greg and larry, pre coral palms pt 1. i love the coral palms arc a lot and love holt and peralta bonding even more so this fic was borne unto me. enjoy and feel free to leave feedback

He takes pause, which is something that doesn’t normally happen. The whole of the situation is weirder than it should be; he’s been standing on his neighbor’s porch for at _least_ six minutes now, unmoving. Certainly, “Greg” should get back on with his afternoon jog; his friends likely expected him back even if they weren’t waiting for him. And yet, there he was, poised to knock, poised to spit the all too familiar, “ _Peralta,_ ” that had decorated his vocabulary for years prior to these four, odd months. Finally, he knocks.

“Larry,” he calls, a little too cautiously; he makes a note to soften his tone. “It’s Greg. I know you’re home.” Silence follows, but the feeling in his gut keeps him planted on that porch. Eventually, from within, a stirring. He hears footsteps; he knows Jake is considering the interaction heavily. Quiet follows again, before a muffled voice finally breaks through the ambience.

“What do you want?” Raymond considers the question intensely. What _did_ he want? They were neighbors, sure, but conversing was normally cut to small, private moments where they could freely discuss some aspects of their past. He wasn’t prone to spur of the moment conversations, but, thinking on it some more, he suddenly becomes acutely aware of why he’s been standing here silently for eight minutes; he was _worried_ about his former detective, even when all was said and done. Jake hadn’t left his house in at least three days, and even working, Ray was sure of that, what with his mail piling up and his curtains remaining drawn even when he was certain he would get up to do that at _some_ point.

“I’ve been thinking about installing a hot tub in the back,” he lies, flat enough to make his point. “I figured you were the man to talk to.” It’s quiet again. Ray remains stoic and still, crossing his arms over his chest comfortably. The shuffling from earlier returns, and the sound of the lock clicking meets his ears before Jake himself opens the door. Raymond buries the first thought he has upon sight of the disheveled younger man, sporting only a tightly-drawn robe and socks. 

“We can talk about hot tubs,” he suggests, hoarsely. Ray cocks an eyebrow.

“That would be wonderful. Please, direct me to yours, so that I may... research,” he plays along, and Jake ushers him inside after a moment. Once the door is closed behind them, Ray uncrosses his arms. “You look terrible,” he notes. Jake cocks a half-assed smile, unceremoniously dropping onto his couch a few feet away.

“Ever the charmer,” he remarks, and then attempts to conceal a cough in his shoulder, which ultimately fails. Ray decides to let the elephant in the room— which is not, surprisingly, the trace amounts of garbage and laundry scattered around parts of the house that garbage and laundry certainly shouldn’t be— be for the time being, moving in to take a seat in his host’s adjacent armchair.

“Jake,” he starts, attempting to speak candidly.

“Wh-who’s Jake?” Jake puts in before Ray can even continue, still heralding that uncomfortable smile. “Ah, Greb, such a kidder.” Ray stares, unmoving; this was unlike even him, and he realizes the issue is too great not to be forced into the open.

“Okay, you’ve left me no choice,” he begins. “Either being stir crazy has rendered you delirious, or you’ve caught ill due to malnourishment onset by depression.” Jake is unresponsive for a moment, his eyes focused anywhere but Holt and the silence broken only by occasional sniffs.

“Just ‘cause you use fancy, big words, doesn’t make you _all-knowing_ ,” he presses, after a time, half-heartedly.

“They are not ‘fancy’, big words,” Ray counters, feigned upset bleeding into his tone as he accentuates each word. “You know exactly what I mean to say, Peralta, and pretending everything is completely fine to get me to go away will, first of all, not work, and second of all, not aid your situation in the least. I urge you talk to me, since you haven’t left the house even for take-out in the past three days.”

“But everything _is_ fine,” Jake wheezes, finally sitting up to look at Holt a little more. “Just, like, I caught a cold or whatever, no big deal.”

“In the middle of summer?” Ray asks.

“It happens,” Jake tries, and then adds, “It happened,” gesturing to himself with a smile as if that made his nonchalance about the situation any better. It derives, however, when he’s sent into a short coughing fit, hugging the robe tighter to himself.

“Even if that is true, I know you,” Ray says. “You know that I know you, and so you know that I know you’ve been eating irregularly and sleeping irregularly—“

“The sleeping, that part is actually pretty normal, if you think about—“

“Jake,” he interrupts, looking the younger man in the eye seriously. “I understand that this is difficult. But you need to take care of yourself.” Neither of them say anything for a moment. Jake falls through on his usual habit of glancing about the room exasperatedly while he sniffs and sinks lower on the couch, and Raymond waits patiently.

“It is hard,” Jake finally speaks again, his voice small against the cold. “All the days keep running together, and I know we’ve been here four months already, but I haven’t done anything... I can’t associate with my doctors which means I don’t get my T, which fucks up my mood and my body... and some days I eat everything in the pantry and others nothing at all. Like, the few times I manage to get out of bed I just come down here and watch _Failure to Launch_ , like it’s ever going to be any better the sixteenth time. It sucks! It will always suck!”

“It does suck,” Ray agrees absently.

“I miss Amy,” Jake says, blearily. “I miss everyone else back at the Nine-Nine, and being a detective, and...” He pauses, a hand moving up to pinch his temples. “Sorry, being sick is really messing with my ability to think, I’m losing trains of thought left and right.”

“You’re sure you’re not crying,” Ray asks, though he knows the answer. Jake is unmoving for a moment.

“Tch! Yes!” Jake counters, and then pauses again. “I mean, maybe that too,” he adds in a whisper, obviously choked up.

“Peralta, you have to remember that I’m going through exactly what you are,” Ray states, softly. Jake looks up at him, his cheeks tinted red, either from the cold or his suppressed tears, Ray isn’t sure.

“You sure don’t betray anything,” he notes, flatly.

“Exactly,” Holt returns. “I left my husband, my _life_ behind, to remain safe. Yes, to protect myself. But to protect him, and everyone else at the Nine-Nine as well. We’ve had this conversation before, and I’ll tell you the same things I did last time. It’s a necessary, albeit, rough precaution, and, I won’t lie, adjusting has been slightly rocky. But I’ve been making the most of it. And you should, too.”

“...But... it’s hard,” Jake retorts, his whine interrupted by a brief cough.

“Have you been looking for jobs, as I suggested?” Ray asks. Jake pauses.

“Yeah...”

“Attempting to talk to other people in the neighborhood, perhaps, get an invite to Estelle’s potluck this Sunday?”

“...Yeah, but—“

“Then you can work past this,” Ray insists. “You can. But you have to _work_. Force yourself out of bed. Force yourself into the shower, or out to dinner. I can do all I can to help,” he continues, taking a breath, “but you’ve got to take care of yourself, too. For your sake, above anyone else’s.” Jake sits and contemplates again, in wake of this, and Ray looks away as he wipes his tear-and-snot-ridden face with the sleeve of his robe.

“I’m sorry,” he says, hushed. Raymond nods in response, giving him the time he needs to recover. And it does take a moment; Jake lets himself cry freely, when it’s clear he can’t hold back anymore. It hurts to see, but Holt is patient, and more than anything, he knows Jake needs it.

“Augh. This sucks! Emotions suck!” the younger man laments when he’s all but gained his bearings, still drying his cheeks. “Th-thank you, Captain,” he forces out, after a moment. “It means a lot.”

“Now, Larry Sherbert,” Ray begins again, now that the heavier part of the conversation has seemingly ended, announcing his intentions with ferocity. “If you would do the honors of getting in the shower, for the sake of the public—“ Jake takes a moment to sniff under his arm, and half-gag-half-coughs at the resultant, nodding with the suggestion, “—I would be happy to take you to dinner, before you get onto the recovery process. As... friends.” Jake perks up at this, slightly.

“Greg,” he starts, mock-bewildered. “You mean to say...”

“Yes,” Ray affirms, his teeth clenched for effect. “We are no longer _just_ neighbors.”

“Title of your sex tape,” Jake fires back, a more realistic beam now coloring his features. “Eh, that was weak. _Friends_.”

“Don’t wear it out,” Ray urges.

“Yeah, yeah, cool, cool, whatever, you called me your friend,” Jake says, shortly before devolving into another coughing fit. Raymond watches quietly.

“You deserved that,” he states, when the younger man is finished.

“Yeah, sure, _friend_ ,” Jake resigns, and then stands, seemingly a bit too quickly. “Oh wow. Feels like I haven’t used my legs in like, two years.” He glances about, hands on his hips and his eyes scrunching up as if unused to the unchanged lighting in his living room. “Will you bring me soup later? Man, I’m real dizzy.”

“Go shower, Peralta.”

“Yup, sure thing,” he says, quickly, before stumbling off in the direction of his bathroom.


End file.
